Heart Punch
by MillerElizabeth
Summary: There's something about coffee that brings it all back. ExB, mature, M for lemons, language, and all that other good stuff.
1. Epilogue

There's just something.

I can't really put my finger on it, or else I would actually say it rather than giving the pseudonym of "something."

I'm sitting here, in a diner, alone, on a Friday night, when I should be out at the clubs, drinking and smoking my lungs away as I'm grinded on my women in painful shoes and slutty v-neck scraps of fabric.

Fucking disgusting.

Actually, I can't really say that. I used to be into that shit, but not anymore. I've abided by my mother's philosophy – "less is more" – and whether that can be applied to spilling your guts about your personal problems, or your clothing, I'm sure it will suffice in logic.

"Can I get you anything, sir?" a female voice, thick with lethargy, racks me from my mental state.

I look up. Brown eyes, brown hair. Simple, easy, but fully capable of standing out.

"Sure. Black coffee would be great," I order, hoping that she'll leave soon.

"Anything to eat? The cobbler is quite delicious," she recommends, and I sigh.

"Sure."

"Something the matter, sir?" she questions, and I sense a little bit of curiosity.

"How about you get me my cobbler, and we can chat like Golden Girls when you get back?" I snap, softly. Not in a harsh way, not at all to bite, but to nibble.

She nods, unable to reply fully. She departs, I depart. I'm going home.

Fuck you.

Fuck you and your stupid car and your "oh, working tonight, late, babe" excuses. You're fucking your boss, I get it. She's my best friend, and you're doing her doggy style while I wash your tidey-wideys.

And you say I'm selfish.

Prick.

Deadbeat and exhausted, coffee pours in the background. Grinding, piddling, that aroma is getting old.

Really old. Folgers is shit, like you.

Bronze. Odd color for a guy. Coiffed like a British man, but I see him in here all the time, and he's got that traditional American accent. Maybe a little Georgia in him, too.

I wonder why he comes here so often alone.

Not like he has a wife that's fucking his best friends. He doesn't seem into the slutty type. Reserved, respectable. Yet, annoyed and contemplating life at a diner. So sad.

He's gone now. Coffee wasted, cobbler wasted, compassion wasted. All I did was ask him what was wrong. It wasn't about trying to get to know him at all, either. I see pain, I don't like it. I fix it.

Except for my pain.

It's deep.

Like a punch to the heart.

**Please tell me what you think so far. Anyone intrigued?**


	2. Confrontations

Heart Punch

Ch. 2 – Confrontations

**I'm glad that you all liked the prologue! I'm sorry that it was probably confusing with the POV changes – my asterisks didn't transfer over, but I'll definitely fix it and re-upload**

**I am the proud owner of a Toyota 4Runner named Cosmo and over 70 headbands**

**Not Twilight.**

**Bella**

Hands gripping the steering wheel leather, ignoring the heat, the burning. There is something burning, but it's not the car.

It's my heart. Slowly the embers were glowing brighter, burning faster, going from red to blue – the hottest of hot.

Fuck Mike, fuck my so-called sister that's been with me since I was four. Best friends don't sleep with each other's husbands.

She has a husband. Southern, polite, a perfect counterpart. Now it's all gone to shit as I jerk to a halt. He's home.

Lights are off, the car is here. Odd. When he ever stays up, he waits for me. Ironically, like I'm his favorite love ever.

What the fuck ever.

I close my door quietly. Something is off. Is someone here?

Hoping to God that I catch them, the door creaks open, but not loudly. Door openings can't be heard from the bedroom in the back of the house.

He'd only fuck her in our bedroom. Figures.

Metal hits the granite. Softly, but with some sound. Fingers dig into my expensive purse that I got for myself when he went out of town on "business." That was my souvenir, asshole.

Three rubbers, three markers of betrayal. Socks slip across the wood as I fucking hope I don't slip and embarrass myself.

Moans, cries, humping. In our bed. Fucking prick.

The door is cracked open, and I can see her on top. _So I was wrong about doggy style._ I'd imagine that he'd feel more dominant, that's what he told me during sex anyways. Our banging was legendary, to say the least. However, I couldn't really think about sex with Mike when Mike was having sex with Irina.

I open the door, a little more, and they don't notice. Musk hits my nose, and I cringe. It's both familiar and unfamiliar.

"Don't get her pregnant," I boom, smacking the condoms on the dresser by the door. Gasps escape their lips as she tries to cover herself with the sheets. "Oh, please. Don't go innocent on me, you guys. I'm just grabbing some panties and my hairbrush. Don't let me interrupt," I seethe through gritted teeth.

"Bella, I—"

"I expected more from you, Mike. Doggy style is your thing. Take more charge next time." Smirking, I slammed the door behind me as I heard cursing, frustrated whispers, and rustling of the sheets. Panties and brush in hand, I stop by the kitchen to grab my keys, a nectarine, my pills. Looks like I'm set.

_Over, _I think to myself, curls wild and loose. _Done._

Door slamming and foot stomping instantaneously feel complete with my soft sobs.

**Edward**

"You're drunk," I spit, stopping in my tracks. A "come get me," text from Emmett implies that he wants me to come get him from some house because he has no method of transportation besides beat up converse that will not hold his large frame for thirty blocks.

"Damn straight, Eddie boy, and damn proud. Rose is coming home with us. Okay?" He demands, not truthfully asking if she can come over. He's just saying it because fuck he is drunk and not sure he can find the right words to say.

"Whatever," I cringe, looking at the hot mess he's picked up this time. Blonde, bombshell, nice rack. Too young for my tastes. I'm twenty-seven and seething.

The drive home is filled with my music in the front, Jasper, silently listening and probably contemplating Gandhi or some shit. In the background, or the back seat rather, there are moans as Rose and Emmett suck face without seatbelts on. My Audi is killing me, beeping and shit. Smacking the console, I turn off the warnings. I don't need a reminder.

"Where's Irina, tonight, Jasper?" Curiosity prompts me to inquire why a man went to a nightclub sans his wife.

"Working late," he flatly put in. "Again." Irina was a neurosurgeon at a hospital in Seattle. Hours were long and inconvenient for family dinners and Jasper's erections. He was a man with needs, and they were rarely met.

A proud father of two boys, Alec and Felix, Jasper spent more time with his children than he did with his wife, and it was evident that his wife's absence for long periods of time was taking a toll on them. Only four, the twins wanted their mom, but she valued work over family time. So sad.

"Sorry, bro. That sucks. I wish I could help," compassion coated my voice and it felt odd. Emotions weren't my thing, and I didn't like it when people thrusted their feelings into my shit. Like that waitress. Weird how she seemed so familiar and I was almost okay with her compassion. Satisfaction left me like my father when I was five. And so, I had left the diner.

The rest of the drive is much like this. Awkward silences, occasional grunting from handsy in the back. Rose's moans are much like my Tanya's. Soft, warm, and erotic.

Flooding memories threaten my resolve. I push them to the back of my mind, trying to keep the tears from flowing.

She was gone.

I was gone.

The garage creaks as it cranks itself open from the worn cables that keep it standing. One of these days it's going to break, and I'll have to fix it myself. Growing up, I was into mechanics, whether it be cars or whatever, and I was planning on fixing it anyway.

In this lofty apartment I own, Emmett and I split rent. Jasper is far too drunk and emotional to go home, so I let him crash in the living room on the couch that my mother found so endearing and modern, yet is about as comfy as a wooden table. Jasper liked it, though, and didn't mind sleeping on it when he came over.

Emmett is furiously making out with the Rose girl and her heels are clacking against my masonry. "Please try and keep your noises down," I warn Emmett, "I really would like to get some sleep tonight."

"Suit yourself, dude," he called to me before he slammed his door and what sounded like a thrust of Rose against it.

Fetching a spare comforter from the hallway closet, I give Jasper all the amenities that he needs and make sure to let him have whatever he wants in the kitchen. Late nights when Irina was out kept him thinking enough to deprive him of sleep and send his cravings awry.

Finally settling into my own bedroom, its meticulous cleanliness one of those things that I obsess over, my suit finds itself in my hamper, alone, with no other clothes to keep it comfortable. Sorry, Armani. You're on your own tonight.

Pantless and numb, I walk to my bathroom and start brushing my teeth. As I scrape the day's residue off of my pearly whites, I scratch my jaw, noting that personal hygiene and shaving are generally good things that I should keep up on. Fuck if I know what my hair is doing. Sticking up in science-fiction angles, I forget it and spit out my mint toothpaste. Familiar clanking as I put my toothbrush in its holder, and my fingers linger on the extra. My other half.

I am alone. A year to the day.

**Does this sound okay to you? I hope it does. My fingers are just writing down what it comes to. I have the fanfic "Knock Love Out" to thank, though it's not online anymore. The idea came to me, and I just started spilling my guts. See y'all soon.**


	3. Escape

Heart Punch

Ch.3 – Escape

**Bella**

It seems that I've been driving for days, but it's only been an hour and a half.

Finally, I've reached Seattle, the big escape; I can get lost here and no one will find me. It's not like my husband will come looking anytime soon.

I sure hope he doesn't.

I've realized that I probably need to call Renee and tell her that I'm not coming to work for a while. If she tells me that I can't miss work, though I've done overtime almost every day for the past year and never missed a day, she better fucking be ready for me to pay a little visit and slit her throat.

Pissed off is a bit of an understatement for how I am feeling at the moment.

There's a Hampton Inn near downtown Seattle, just a ways outwards, and I figure that I can spend a couple nights there until I contact Alice. She lives here in an apartment, but it's four o'clock in the morning and I am starving.

Figuring that my car deserves a rest, I pull into a quaint little diner that evokes nostalgia in me for my own diner that my grandmother started. The place is open twenty-four hours, and, surprisingly, the waitresses on those homey little roller skates aren't annoyed that I've ruined their extended break time.

Sweet and gentle, a plump woman rolls over, exhibiting her talent on roller skates and her skill at staying awake at these ridiculous hours.

"What'll it be, shuga?" she questions, pen ready to scribble down codes and abbreviations.

"Coffee and toast, please, ma'am," I reply, smiling sheepishly. Nodding silently, I hear her skates rolling away in the distance, and I pull out my phone to take my mind off of everything.

Numbness. Not anger nor hatred. Just the tingly feeling of my body falling asleep. I even caught them in the act, and they fucking acted like I didn't know.

I've known. For weeks. People know, my friends know. My mom even knows. And denial had taken over. I didn't want to believe that my own husband was cheating on me with my best friend, whom I'd known since I was four years old.

Now twenty-four, young, naïve, and torn, I finish the coffee, letting the hot liquid burn and tear at my esophagus. The toast scratches and it feels oddly comforting. It counteracts the ripped shreds of my heart on the inside.

It's been that way for a while.

I pay the woman seven dollars tip plus the four dollar toast and coffee. She has family, she has a husband, as evidenced from her gigantic wedding ring.

I leave my hurt behind to go sleep the night away. I'll call Alice in a few hours, she'll let me stay for a while until Mike signs the divorce papers.

They're in his underwear drawer. I slipped them in when I was grabbing my hairbrush.

**Edward**

I haven't slept so unsoundly in a long while. And it's either because of the fact that Tanya crossed my mind throughout the night.

Or Emmett's insane sex noises that lasted well into the morning.

Fucking disgusting.

I wake up with morning wood. Figures. I go into the bathroom and take a shower, shake the creamer, and manage to get out without making a sound. Drying my hair off, I leave it be, not bothering to coiff it nicely or try and tame it. There's nothing I can do about it. There's nothing I can do about a lot of things in my life.

Jasper has already made strawberries and eggs for himself in the middle of the night, and the residue and plate are on the coffee table as he lies sprawled across that damn couch. Snoring, I creep over and remove the plate gingerly, hoping not to wake him from the slumber that I'm sure he's been enjoying for only a couple of hours.

There's a faint smell of burned butter as I rinse Jasper's dishes. Sure, I'd love for him to do the dishes, but he's a grieving man, depressed from lack of Irina.

Hopefully she's home with the kids and didn't leave the boys with another babysitter.

I was a babysitter's child. And it fucking sucked.

Shirtless and a little chilly, I walk over to the touch screen mounted on the wall that controls almost all of my apartment, when I see that the air conditioning controls have been tampered with.

"Emmett," I growl, stomping over to his room. Knocking on the door, I hear grunts and snarls, but no significant movement showing signs that he plans on answering the door. Covering my eyes, I open the door and look away as I warn them that I am in the doorway. "Emmett," I yell, creating a slit in my fingers on my face to see there is no nudeness above the sheets. Taking my hand away, I continue my rant. "If you do not stop touching the controls without asking me, I swear, I will cut your dick off," and I slam the door to emphasize my point.

An hour passes and as I am enjoying some of my mother's famous French toast recipe, Emmett emerges from his room in only his boxers, as Rose follows close behind in the same outfit as the night before. He escorts her to the door, gives her a light smooch, and smacks her tush as she leaves.

"Way to ruin the fucking mood, dick," Emmett snaps, stalking over and stealing a piece of my French toast. Protective of my morning food, I encircle my plate behind my arms. "She was all cranky and shit because you woke us up."

"Fuck you, Emmett. I was nipping this morning, man, and it was weird. Just leave it at the usual temperature. It saves money that way," and I clear my plate before he has time to lick it clean. Sometimes, it was nice having a human dishwasher, but today was not that day.

"TMI, douche bag. I was really hot after last night, alright. Jesus. But, actually, I shouldn't be all that mad with you, because, after your rude awakening, I was surprised with a morning blow job. So thanks, I guess," he said, rubbing his junk as he grabbed a couple of slices of French toast and sat at the bar.

"Okay, then," I replied, leaving him to his scarfing of food into his bottomless pit. Stupid fucking vacuum cleaner.

Jasper has now slumped onto his stomach as his hand barely touches the shag carpet underneath the couch. I put a little plate of French toast, some water, and a couple of aspirin on the coffee table for when he wakes up, just in case his hangover catches up to him sooner than he has planned.

Today is grocery shopping today. I have to go to downtown Seattle for the organic stuff, since mommy checks up on me every once in a while to make sure I'm not shoving shit down my throat.

Jeans, a t-shirt, and converse accompany me as I fetch my keys, wallet, and phone from my nightstand. Tanya's picture is standing up next to my IHome. I stop and stare for a while, remembering. I grow some balls and leave me room. "See you later assholes," I yell as I leave the apartment, set on buying some ice cream to soothe my aching throat, and aching head.

**Bella**

Pain, throbbing, aching. That's all I feel as unwelcome light pours in from the window. Ow, my eyes are soar and burning. Last night was too much. After the diner, I grabbed some gas station wine (class I know), drank my feelings until falling asleep drunk.

It's eleven twenty-four, and I'm starving.

I need to go grocery shopping for food to keep in my pantry – AKA, my shit car. A 2000 Nissan Pathfinder that I inherited from my pop, Charlie. He was a trailblazer back in the 90s when he had me, and thought that living near the forest in the Podunk little town of Forks, Washington would suffice instead of actually living in the woods. Fucking hippie.

I leave my room cleaner than when I got there. A trait that my grandmother passed down from me, somehow skipping my mother. The sheets were folded in the corner, with a note that said "wash me". You're fucking welcome, Hampton Inn.

As I drive through the streets of downtown Seattle, I see little businesses on the left and right, huddled together and crowded. Sidewalks were painted with children's chalk and business signs. Smiling, I notice a perfect spot in front of the grocery store and manage to get over to the side of the road where I need to be. Suddenly, out of nowhere, an Audi sports car revs in the background as my spot is stolen.

Fucking douche bag.

Pissed off and seething from the series of unfortunate events I've endured the past two days, I find a nearby parking spot, though not as lucky as the other that was stolen from me.

Getting out of my car, I make my way to the grocery store, sending an angry look towards the douche bag…who is not in the car because his car his empty.

This is awkward.

Annoying bell sounds accompany my entrance. Eyes from the cashier look me over, smiling creepily. I find my way in the chip aisle, which is also in close proximity to the chocolate aisle._ Must stock up for tonight with Alice, _I think to myself, grabbing a couple of boxes of chocolate and putting it in my cart.

Stopping by to get yet another bottle of cheap wine, though I know Alice and her boyfriend collect wine for a hobby, my cart hits another.

Eyes on eyes.

Fuck.

**Please review. Shanks, y'all.**


	4. Acquaintances

Heart Punch

Ch. 4 – Acquaintances

**Bella**

It was him. A – the douche who had taken that fabulous parking spot in the front of the grocery mart. And B – the man from the diner. He was here, and he was grocery shopping, by himself. Strange for a man who probably had a girl at home cooking him sandwiches stark nude and waiting for him. That's what Mike had told me he wanted anyway.

Fucking disgusting.

"It's—"

"You…" he finishes my sentence, awkwardly and wiping his hand sweat on his jeans. He obviously didn't expect to see me again after the way he'd treated me the night before.

Silence ensues as both of us stand awkwardly near the liquor corner.

"Ma'am," he starts abruptly, pulling me out of my surprised state. "I want to apologize for the other night. I was way out of line, and I shouldn't have been that cold to you—"

"Sir," I address him formally. Emerald complements his bronze locks and I smile on the inside. "I accept your apology, but it is not necessary. It was late, and I'm sure you were going through your own problems. I did not mean to intrude into your personal life." Smiling sheepishly, I maneuver my cart around his, quickly glancing to see that he has some wine, some cheese, and a couple of bags full of fresh fruits and vegetables.

Classy man. Respectable. Admirable.

"Ma'am," he calls as I have walked only a few feet from where he is. Turning around, I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear and look at him, waiting for him to continue. "I would like to know who I'm apologizing to."

Lips curving into a slight smile, I rest my hand on the bar of the shopping cart and simply say, "Bella, sir."

"Bella," he repeats in a velvet tone. Smooth, gelato sounds echo in my ears. I love the way my name rolled off his tongue.

"Have a nice day…" I start, waiting for him to reply with his own name.

"Edward," he says flatly, as if he iss ashamed of his own name. Gentle, endearing, vintage. Very attractive.

"Edward," I whisper, returning to my cart and proceeding towards the register. This mini-mart is fairly claustrophobic and I am only a few feet away from where we had bumped carts, but when I turn to look his way again, he has vanished into thin air.

As I pay for my goodies, I phone Alice, waiting on the dial tone for only two rings before a chirpy pixie answers on the other side with a bright, "Hello, girly!"

"Hey, Alice," I greet softly, not really wanting to tell her about the events that had happened in the last couple of days. However, she is very perceptive and I can't help but predict her next statement.

"You're coming over right now to talk about it, aren't you," she says point-blank. Sometimes I swear she was psychic.

"Yes, ma'am," I answer curtly. Ending the call, I grab my grocery bags, bid the cashier a good day, and travel back to my car in search of Alice's loft.

Tonight will be very, very long.

**Edward**

That girl was…wow.

From the other night, I noticed her, but I didn't really _notice _her. Her brown hair is a lot more dimensional in the sunlight that is pouring through the grocery mart windows. This place is small, but it has enough food to keep me decently fed.

Those eyes, those deep brown eyes – they're like pools of dark, molten honey. Honestly, I probably got lost in them at least twice while we were kind-of conversing.

Shaking my thoughts about this mystery girl, I pay for my food, satisfied with my selections until I have to come back to this small mart. Smiling at Carmen, the cashier, I notice her looking me up and down, checking out my outfit for the day. Smirking to myself – knowing that she has a crush on me – I exit the grocery store and step outside to where my car is, noticing a note on top of my windshield.

There is a specific handwriting that I see, and my face drops.

_We need to talk _

Speed and rumbling is all I see and hear as I race down the main road to my mother's house. She has left a note on my car, and, knowing her, she was in the neighborhood looking for me.

Notes mean something is very, very wrong. And I am very, very afraid.

My childhood home is still as modern and contemporary as I remember it. Esme, my adoptive mother, has kept my room the same as it was in high school, in hopes that I might move in sometime for an extended stay for her to call me her "love child" and "baby cub."

Dad is gone, she is home alone. Opera blares through the windows, but is only muted on the outside. She's cooking Italian. It's been a rough day.

My key slips into the lock seamlessly, and I find that the door is already unlocked, as if Esme is anxiously awaiting my arrival.

Climbing up the stairs, the kitchen comes into view, and the knife is furiously chopping spinach alongside fresh mozzarella. She's making bruschetta – her comfort food.

"Mommy?" I call out quietly, hoping that she can hear me through the loud Italian opera flooding through my eardrums and clouding my thoughts.

Somehow, she senses my presence, and I see her turn the volume down and set the knife aside, throwing her apron on the island and come rushing towards me. Squeezing from my mommy is only natural.

"Oh my baby boy. My baby boy, your mommy is sad," she coos to me, nuzzling into my neck and finding solace in my strong grip. Emotions aren't me, but only when my mom is hugging me. Safety is my home in her arms.

"What's the matter? I got your note on the car," I say, releasing my grasp on her small frame and searching her eyes for an answer.

"It's your father," she says anxiously, small sobs escaping her lips. "He hasn't answered his phone in days, and I'm worried. I'm worried he's leaving me, that he's lost somewhere, that—"

"Crazy bones, you need to calm down," I soothe her, rubbing her arms lovingly. "He is in surgery, remember? Didn't you write that down in one of your many calendars, mommy?"

"Oh, that's right. Silly mommy, always forgetting things. Now where did I put that knife? Oh, dear, I hope I didn't forget that, too…"

I shake my head. "Mommy, it's on the counter by your apron. Go back to making your damn bruschetta, and I will sit idly by and play angry birds while you talk to me about the Bachelor.

"You always know how to make me happy, cub," she coos as she continues her cooking.

We spend the next few hours discussing the current bachelor and wife candidates along with how good her bruschetta is getting. Sadly, the double entendre breaks my heart. Better cooking, more meltdowns.

Around the time that I was adopted, Esme's obstetrician informed her that she could no longer have children. After countless failed pregnancy attempts and three miscarriages, Esme descended into a depressed state, and is currently on her medication regularly.

"So, mommy," I start, relishing in the happiness that results from when I refer to her as "mommy", "what is new?"

Exceptionally perceptive, her eyebrows cock as she looks me dead in the eye. "Nothing on my side, little boy. However, it seems that somebody has somebody on their mind. Care to share, pretty child?" She questions, laying her chin on her hand, elbow firmly locked on the counter. Crunching, crumbs, and a sound of deliciousness as another bruschetta is scarfed down her throat.

'There's this girl I met, and I didn't mean for anything to happen. I was a little bit of a dick to her the other night because of Tanya and all that. Coincidentally, I met her again today in the grocery store and expressed my deepest apologies. However, now the image of her is stuck in my head," I finish, heaving a deep breath and crunching on another bruschetta. Damn, this was good.

"Sounds like you'll be seeing her again," my mother predicts, smirking that smirk that I inherited indirectly from her, and she swipes the plate away, placing it on the windowsill by the sink and beginning to clean up the kitchen. AKA – my signal to leave.

"Thank you for the bruschetta/fortune cookies, mommy," I say, getting up from my chair to give her a light smooch on the cheek before exiting my old home. I ignore the family pictures on the way down to the front door. Footsteps follow my silent closing of the large wooden door that shelters my family from their even more sheltered life.

My engine revs as I back out skillfully and head back towards home. Crisis one averted today with mother.

Bella still lurks in my brain.

**I hope you are enjoying it so far. I plan on making the next chapters a little bit longer. Could I have three reviews before I post a new chapter? Just a little incentive for people to post reviews and me to get my motivation on. Thanks :)**


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